


For All That It's Worth

by elimalfoy



Series: For What It Counts, For All It's Worth [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 10:31:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19060852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elimalfoy/pseuds/elimalfoy
Summary: Forever was an awfully long time, he decided, not six months into his self-imposed exile--which was exactly why he waited five years to return to England.But what he hadn’t anticipated, or rather, what he hadn’t even thought to consider, was just how much things could change in that time.





	For All That It's Worth

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a sequel to For What it Counts.  
> I liked that fic as a stand alone, and I liked that I left it with bittersweet ending.  
> But I also love resolution and happy endings, so here's the finale.  
> Hope you like it!  
> xxx

            Forever was an awfully long time, he decided, not six months into his self-imposed exile. Sure, it had seemed like a good, logical, adult decision before. Leave. Protect Harry. Escape the legacy of his father, etc. etc.

            Except, as it turned out, sobriety was dull enough without taking any risks. Why shouldn’t he be with Potter? So what if things went horribly wrong? At least he’d be able to say he tried, and who knows, he might have even had a decent time while it lasted. Whatever happened, it would have been infinitely more interesting than the slow, meaningless days he spent working at the potions supply store or the substance-less nights he endured, feigning interest in whatever lustful wizard approached him.

            He knew how pathetic that sounded, living in Paradise, enjoying the tempting offers from gorgeous, tanned gods, and he was miserable. It all felt so…mundane. Every day was the same as the one before, and the one after it, and so on and so forth. He’d stepped off of the fast track and ended up in quicksand, if that made any sense.

            So, that’s exactly why he waited five years to visit England again. Yes, he’d made a mistake, and he’d known from the second he left, but he wasn’t about to admit that, least of all to Harry Potter.

            What he hadn’t anticipated, or rather, he hadn’t even thought to consider, was that unlike him, people changed after five years. Circumstances changed.

            For example, Pansy had married that German pure-blood of hers and popped out three pure-blooded brats. She scolded him, of course, but quickly welcomed him back with open arms. Open arms, so long as he atoned by watching her children most weekends.

            Hermione Granger had been elected Minister for Magic, not that that was any surprise. He’d even voted for her via absentee ballot. Her revolutionary sanctions on the treatment of magical creatures had finally been implemented. She had strengthened ties with the Muggle government more than any of her predecessors. The righteous Gryffindor that she was, she’d even made progress healing the rift between pure-bloods, half-bloods, and muggleborns. She truly was the brightest witch of their age, and perhaps the brightest Minister in several centuries.

            His mother had finally kicked the bucket, so to speak. He had been informed, of course, and sent all the necessary documents pertaining to his inheritance. He hadn’t bothered going to the funeral, no doubt a gaudy, note-worthy event. Not surprisingly, she had left instructions for her own burial, so mercifully, there was no need for him to arrange anything.

            Oh, and most importantly: Harry Potter had moved on. Harry “a part of me will always love you” Potter had gotten married. And to a woman no less. He’d waited an entire year, he’d thought bitterly, but then remembered that they hadn’t made any sort of vows. They hadn’t even been together, for Merlin’s sake. Harry had every right to find love again. It just seemed strange that he should be the one pining in the end.

            Then again, things always did seem to end strangely for him, didn’t they?

            After Pansy had given him the full update, including the news of Harry’s nuptials, he’d visited his old stomping ground for the first time since the monitoring charm had been put in place. The faces had changed, new dealers, new junkies, but at the same time, it was exactly the same. The same empty, lost expressions, the hollow, hopeless feeling. He’d even gone down one back alley he recognized, twenty-pound note in hand, but turned back at the last moment.

              He had no idea if the charm was still in place, and a part of him said that it was irrelevant. Another part said that if it was, maybe Harry would be alerted. Maybe that was what made him do it, or maybe that was what made him turn back. Either way, he spent the remained of the night soaking up the flashing lights and pulsing beat of the nearest gay club, politely refusing the baggie a bathroom shag offered him.

            He went home alone, feeling more depressed and pathetic than he had in a long time.

            Sitting around moping, he decided, was not a sustainable way of life. He had more than enough to pay the bills on his very nice, new flat, but binge-watching horror movies was only entertaining for so long. And Pansy’s offspring, adorable and infuriating as they were, were not an adequate source of intellectual stimulation.

            Thanks to Hermione’s efforts, getting a job as the notorious Death Eater Draco Malfoy was not as difficult as it once was. With his training and experience, Goldfinch’s Apothecary in Diagon Alley hired him on the spot. As the head potions brewer no less.

            It felt good to be in a lab again, standing over cauldron’s all day, watching for subtle colour changes, carefully stirring in the correct patterns. The exhaustion he felt every night brought him right back to his days slaving under Severus’s formidable instruction. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it, the smells, the smoke, the heaviness of the air, the sounds of the flames or the bubbling of potions. He felt useful, maybe even a bit important. At the very least, it was demanding enough that he managed to forget about Harry most of the time.

            Maybe he would have been able to forget about him completely eventually, he’d thought with hopeful optimism. It was a lie he had to believe or else succumb to the knowledge that he’d missed his last change. There would be other men, he tried to convince himself. Surely, Harry Potter couldn’t be the last, or only, man he would ever love.

            And as soon as Harry walked into the shop, all of his progress and hope flew right out of the window. Because Merlin, had Harry always looked _that_ good? When had he stopped wearing glasses, and how were his eyes even more enticing without them? When did Harry’s hair go from adorably shaggy to down-right fuckable dishevelled?

            Still, he wasn’t about to look like a drooling idiot, and quickly focused his attention back onto the instruction book he was reading behind the till. Of course Harry would show up on the one afternoon he covered the front of the store.

            “ _Draco_?” Harry breathed in disbelief, and he forced himself not to glance up too quickly.

            “Yes?” he asked, hoping he sounded mildly uninterested while also surprised.

            “You’re back,” Harry whispered. It was a statement, not a question. “When?”

            “A few months now.”

            “Why?” Harry asked, confusion still written across his face.

            “Paradise got boring,” he answered as if it were terribly unimportant. It wasn’t a complete lie. “And Pansy needed help with her growing brood of brats.”

            Harry was silent for a few beats, not that that helped his racing heart.

            “You could have written,” he said finally, and looking up, Harry’s eyes reflected the same heart break he felt. That desperate longing he felt every night before he fell asleep, that painful remembrance he couldn’t avoid, it was all there.

            “I don’t know your address.” What was he supposed to say? “I’m a coward” or “you got married, and I’m still in love with you” weren’t quite subtle enough.

            Harry didn’t seem to accept his excuse, but all evidence of sadness evaporated. “Well, give me yours and I’ll owl you. We’ll have dinner.”

            He wasn’t asking or offering, he was demanding. Had Harry Potter finally grown some balls? And honestly, who was he to refuse the Chosen One’s invitation for a meal?

            Well, for starters, someone who was would readily ruin the Chosen One’s marriage at the first opportunity. Someone who, if he were thinking rationally, should probably put as much distance between his very married ex and himself as he could.

            “Alright,” he said simply, and scribbled down his flat.

            “I’ll hold you to that,” Harry chuckled, accepting the paper, and Merlin, _winking_ as he took it.

            “A Malfoy always keeps their word,” he responded intently. “Did you come in for something?” he asked, changing the subject.

            “Uh, yeah, let me get the list.” And then he was the same Harry he’d always been: inarticulate, fumbling, and awkward. Some things never did change, apparently. “Right. dioscorea, chamomile, and bitter apple.”

            “Is someone teething?” he asked, turning towards the wall of glass jars. They were standard ingredients for a teething tonic, but then again, they also had numerous other purposes. He hadn’t actually considered that that was the actual reason Harry was buying them.

            “Yeah, my son actually. He’s driving me up the wall with all his shrieking.”

            He froze half way through reaching for the first container. Harry Potter had gotten married. He knew that. What he hadn’t known was that Harry Potter and his wife had apparently had a child. And that changed things drastically, at least, it certainly changed things for him.

            “Six months?” he forced himself to say. Polite small talk with an old friend, that’s all it could be now. A wife was one obstacle. A family? That was another thing entirely. “What’s his name?”  
            “Five months,” Harry corrected, “and his name’s Jamie. Well, James really, after my father.”  
            Somehow, hearing the name, the age, made it even worse. He packaged the ingredients with slightly more force than was strictly necessary, tearing the first paper bag in the process.

            “Well, if this doesn’t do the trick, I can brew a more potent tonic as well.”

            He didn’t say anything else, just added the cost in the till as if Harry were any other customer who walked into the shop. Harry realized it, because almost in response his expression shifted to almost apologetic. And why should he be? He had nothing to be sorry for. He’d lived his life, gotten married, and had a kid. What was wrong with that? It wasn’t his fault that one clueless, ignorant Death Eater was still lusting after him.

            “Thanks,” Harry said carefully. “So dinner this week?”

            “Maybe. I’m a bit busy.” Which was a lie. All he had to do was go home and be miserable that he truly had lost his one chance. He knew he shouldn’t have dinner with Harry. And he also knew that if Harry did owl, he would say yes in a heartbeat.

            “Have a nice day,” he quipped cheerfully as Harry swung open the door. Once it clicked shut, he collapsed into a defeated heap behind the counter.

 

_7 at the Leaky Cauldron?_

_Harry_

            Came the owl only a day later. Five words, that was it, and it was more than enough to throw him into a fitful frenzy. Dinner, it certainly sounded simple enough. Except it wasn’t, because it would be the first time he was with Harry since…well, since he’d watched him go through a horrendous withdrawal and then disappear, seemingly forever. Were they going to talk about it? Because what excuses did he have? What explanations could he possible offer?

            Was he supposed to suffer through a discussion on how wonderful Harry’s life had become? About his perfect wife and perfect son? Maybe he could endure it, but what could he say for himself? How miserable paradise was? How many men he’d shagged while pretending that they were Harry? Or better yet, they could have the unavoidable conversation about how his sobriety was going. Going, was about all he’d be able to say in response. Still miserable, but hey, I haven’t overdosed again!

            And what was he supposed to wear? Well, that was a stupid question. He looked fantastic in everything, and his wardrobe was certainly superior to anything Harry was used to. Casual, or maybe refined with a hint of sexy? The Leaky Cauldron wasn’t exactly formal attire worthy, but he had always looked rather good in a nice, fitted dress shirt. Then again, Harry would probably show up in Muggle jeans, and then he’d look ridiculous.

            Seven? That barely left him enough time to get home, shower, and get ready. Not everyone could just throw something on and leave the house, he thought, bitterly remembering how good “dishevelled” looked on Harry.  Besides, he to maintain what little reputation was left of the once great Malfoy family.

            Although, then again, maybe he didn’t.

            He’d gotten used to dressing casually during his time abroad. He’d discovered very quickly that hot weather and suffocating humidity didn’t mix well with carefully ironed, heavy, English wool trousers. He hadn’t anticipated riffling through the large collection of laid-back clothing he’d accumulated so soon, or ever really. But the idea of Harry Potter’s face when he walked into the Leaky Cauldron in nothing but a pair of faded, worn denim jeans and a loose tee-shirt was too precious to pass up.

            He wasn’t wrong, of course. Harry did show up in Muggle clothing, and he certainly hadn’t expected him to do the same. He’d arrived nearly half an hour late, partially because of the time it took him to get ready, but mostly because he relished in the knowledge that he had kept Harry Potter waiting.

            Harry was still looking at him with a small twinkle of surprise in his eyes as he took a seat next to him at the bar. And he wasn’t the only one staring, most of the pub seemed mildly intrigued by their rendezvous of sorts. The bartender, however, was looking at him with something altogether different, but not unfamiliar, if the not-so-subtle wink was any indication. It was nice to know he was still able to draw so much attention.

            “Can I get you something?” the bartender asked, beating Harry to the question. Things were certainly going better than he would have anticipated.

            “Just a water, please,” he answered before Harry could interject to defend his sobriety.

            “Should we get a table?” Harry offered with a sideways glance over the bar.

            “If you like,” he decided as if it didn’t matter either way.

            Harry led him through the small weeknight crowd, stopping to sit at one of the more isolated booths. Most of the room wouldn’t be able to tell they were there at all. Still, he didn’t miss the faint disillusionment charm Harry cast for good measure, and maybe that was the worst part.

            Five years ago, Harry wouldn’t have cared if people saw them together. Hell, people _had_ seen them together, and Harry hadn’t even batted an eye. Back then, Harry might have even wanted them to be caught by the paparazzi. He certainly would have wanted their relationship to be public.

 _Wanted_ , he repeated, and then remembered that there had never been any relationship to publish. Maybe Harry had wanted to be with him, but clearly that wasn’t the case anymore.

            What had he been thinking? Worrying about what to wear, what to say, whether he should flirt with the bartender. It didn’t matter. Harry had changed. Harry was _married_. Harry had a _son_.

            “Did the herbs help?” he asked quickly, trying desperately to distract himself.

            “Yes, actually,” Harry laughed. “It’s a miracle. I actually got a full night’s sleep.”

            That makes one of us, he thought miserably. He’d spent half of the night making a pros and cons list of buying a nice, expensive bottle of Scotch or alternatively re-watching terrible, sappy romantic comedies. The latter had, of course, won out.

            “Would you like to see a picture?” Harry asked suddenly, drawing him back to reality. No, he didn’t really want to see a picture of the perfect life Harry had created, but he nodded anyway.

            Harry fished an old, cracked, leather wallet out of his pocket and triumphantly pulled out a single piece of paper. It was a Muggle photo, he noticed. It always seemed odd how the faces didn’t move in them, but that was hardly the strangest part. There was the chubby, fresh face of who he assumed was Jamie, already sporting an impressive mass of curly black hair and unmistakable green eyes. But the picture wasn’t just of him.

            “Teddy,” Harry said, pointing towards the first face to the left, “my oldest. Well, he’s actually—”

            “Tonk’s and Lupin’s son. I recognize him,” he interrupted. “You’re his godfather, right?”

            “Guardian now. Andromeda—”

            “I know,” he interrupted again. Even in his remote corner of the world he’d gotten the news. She had been his aunt, after all, even if they’d never been properly introduced. “He’s my family too, technically.”

            “You should come meet him sometime,” Harry offered. He meant it well, but it was just another terrible reminder of the family he’d been born into. Andromeda had been cast out because she chose love over tradition. Her daughter, his cousin, had been killed by their aunt. And what was the point of it all?

            How could he meet her son and know that he played a part in his parent’s deaths?

            Harry must have sensed his mood shift, because he quickly tried to move on. “Lucy. My second. She’s three and a half now.”

            “They’re adorable,” he said simply. That’s what people said about children, wasn’t it? And they were adorable, the younger two the spitting image of their father. In the picture, Harry sat just behind them, and all three looked at him with absolute love and happiness. A perfect, wonderful family. Harry had found what he wanted in the end. After everything he’d lost, everything he’d sacrificed, Harry deserved it.

            So why did he still feel so miserable?  
            “I’m inclined to agree, but then again, you have yet to see them throwing fits because they don’t want to go to sleep or shrieking because they don’t want to eat their vegetables.” Harry smiled despite what he was saying. It was almost endearing.

“They look just like you,” he continued, because it was all he could think to say. “Your _wife_ ,” he managed, hoping it didn’t sound too forced, “what’s her name? Do they look like her as well?”

            “Andrea,” Harry said simply, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was hiding something, he realized. The broad smile he wore when he talked about their children disappeared in an instant.

            “She’s not in the picture,” he pressed, “I assume she was taking it then?”  
            “No, Hermione took it,” he started, then seemed to realize he’d revealed some secret piece of information. “Listen, Draco—”

            “You don’t have to tell me,” he interjected quickly. He’d had enough of coping with Harry’s new life for one night. Anything more and he might let their flirtatious bartender mix him something a little bit stronger. Harry could tell him if he wanted to, but judging by the fatigued expression he wore, that didn’t seem to be the case. “Not right now, anyway.”

            “Thank you,” Harry said with a breath of relief. “But what about you? How’s sobriety?”

            He choked on his water a bit, not that he hadn’t been expecting the question. “Well, I’m sober, aren’t I? I mean, life is unbearably dull, but I suppose there are some benefits too.”

            “Like what?” Harry probed.

            Living to see you again, he thought much to his horror. Now was not the time to announce his undying love for Harry Potter. Merlin, the romantic dramas had gotten to him.

            “Knowing where I am when I wake up every morning. At a reasonable hour, I might add. The money I end up saving is quite nice as well. Oh, and I’ve taken up yoga.”

            “Have you really?” Harry chuckled with that perfect side-ways grin.

            “Of course not,” he admitted, “but I’ve heard addicts often do.”

            “Addicts?” Harry repeated.

            “I think I’ve made it through the denial phase.”

            “I just mean,” Harry started defensively, “you would never have said that—”

            “Five years ago,” he finished. “Things change,” he added with a note of finality.

            He’d changed, and it had been naïve to assume he was the only one. Of course Harry had changed. He was a bit more mature, his face had a few more lines, and…well, everything had changed, hadn’t it?

            “Have they?” Harry mused quietly.

            It was too surreal, sitting across from someone he loved, who probably loved him as well, and knowing that they could do nothing about it. It was too surreal to think that Harry would go home to his wife and children, and he would go back to his empty, cold flat. It was too surreal that after everything they’d been through, everything he’d denied for so long, that their ending could be so…unfinished.

            He didn’t try to answer.

 

            “He has children?” Pansy asked in disbelief. So the media hadn’t caught the sensational story of the Potter brood after all.

            “Three,” he muttered bitterly.

            “Merlin, that does put a damper on your plans,” she laughed, and he glared at her.

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

            “Don’t you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

            “He’s married,” he said with disdain, “ _with_ children, I might add.”

            “That never stopped you before.”

            It was a low blow, although, not completely unwarranted. He had broken up her first engagement after all. To be fair, Theodore Nott would have only made her miserable.  Frederic was a much better man, an infinitely better husband, and a ridiculously adoring father. Watching them was sickening, but at least the time he spent with them made him feel the tiniest bit less alone.

            “So, what’re you going to do know?” she pressed.

            “I was thinking of wallowing in my misery until I slowly wither and die. Maybe I’ll take up yoga while I wait.”

            “What the hell is yoga?”

            He laughed. Pansy wouldn’t have any idea what the bizarre Muggle activity was. Harry had, though. Harry had thought it was funny. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

            “Well, the way I see it is you have two options,” she stated pragmatically. “One, you move on, or two…”

            “Two?” he prompted.

            “You keep trying.”

            He scoffed. “Believe it or not, I _have_ changed. I don’t drink, use, or intentionally ruin relationships anymore.”

            “He still loves you,” she said bluntly and suddenly.

            How would she know? Not that she didn’t have a point. The way Harry looked at him…it was the same as it used to be. That spark, that intrigue, it was all still there. Merlin, even the attraction was there. But it didn’t matter. Harry was unfalteringly loyal and noble. And even if Harry did have a moment of weakness, he knew he could never give into it.

            Because one thing hadn’t changed. He would never, ever be the reason Harry suffered. Even if that meant pining for the rest of his life, he could never take away what Harry had worked so hard for and deserved so much.

            “What if you were still in love with someone else? Would you act on impulse and ruin your family? You have a husband and children. Could you really do that to them?”

            She cast a brief glance over to the play area set up in her living room. “But I’m not in love with someone else, am I?” she said with absolute conviction. “I’m lucky. I love my husband. I love my children. I love my life. But if I did love someone else? I wouldn’t be able to spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been. Everything else…I don’t know. Things have a funny way of working out in the end.”

            “Being a mother has softened you,” he noted. It was easier than actually acknowledging what she said. “You’ve been reading too many fairy tales.”

            “What? Are you saying that princes don’t really save damsels in distress? Or find glass slippers? Or awaken comatose princesses with true love’s kiss?” She looked at him seriously. “Or maybe we didn’t survive a madman’s violent quest for world domination. Maybe I didn’t find a wonderful man and create a wonderful family. Maybe you didn’t get sober. Maybe you didn’t learn that that cold heart of yours actually does have the capacity to love. Maybe we’ll have miserable endings after all.”

            That was another thing that hadn’t changed, he decided. Pansy still acted like she was his mother. Like she had the solutions to all his problems. Like she knew so much better than he did. For once, he wanted to believe that she did.

            “You know the original stories were rather morbid,” he countered.

            “Could you at least try to take what I’m saying seriously?” she sighed exasperatedly.

            “Not all of us have happy endings.”

            “That sounds far too pathetic to be coming from the once great Slytherin prince himself.”

            “That was another lifetime, Pansy, and you know it.”

            “Grow up, Draco. I’m not going to listen to your whining forever. Either do something about it or shut up.”

            He did shut up, because if she said anything else, he might start listening.

 

            Four months after his return, the Prophet found out. He was surprised it had taken so long. He hadn’t exactly been hiding. Anyone who came into the shop might have seen him. And it was hardly front-page news after so many years. Hadn’t the Death Eater obsession died down? Or was he the only one worthy of the attention left?

            _Draco Malfoy’s Mysterious Reappearance_ , the title had read, and in a smaller font underneath, _and where has he been?_

            The article was mostly speculation, of course, accompanied by a very outdated picture. Had he really looked that terrible? All sunken skin and hollow eyes. He almost hoped they’d do a follow up article just so he could send in an updated head shot.

            The theories ranged from international research to the inevitable Death Eater activity. The only accurate piece of information they provided was his current place of occupation, much to his annoyance. Half a dozen curious customers had inquired after him before he even managed to read the paper himself. He hoped Hermione’s anti-persecution laws were strong enough to protect him from the lingering hatred for his family and what he done as a part of it.

            He tried to hide in the lab for most of the day. It was easy to get engrossed in the massive volume of orders he needed to fill. They weren’t most exciting potions he’d ever brewed, mostly hair restoring tinctures and anti-nausea tonics. Still, it was something. He almost managed to stay out of sight until closing, but then Goldfinch was called out on urgent business and he had no choice but to man the till.

            Which was, of course, when Harry Potter showed up. Either he had impeccable timing, or his interest had escalated to stalking.

            “You’re on the front page,” Harry said breathlessly as he barged through the door. He nodded slightly, knowing the obvious statement hardly needed confirmation. “Are you okay?”

            Misplaced concern, he though, just as always. “Are you inquiring as a concerned citizen or a careful Auror?”

            “Well, I’m not an Auror anymore, for starters.”

            His head shot up at that. Harry Potter wasn’t an Auror anymore? How had he missed that piece of information? “Why not?”

            “It was too dangerous, what with the kids—” Harry stopped suddenly. “You haven’t answered my question.”

            “I’m fine.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. At least, not in relation to the article.

            “There were some very interesting theories,” Harry mused, and he noticed the crumpled paper he was hiding behind his back. He really had read the article.

            “They didn’t discover the real reason, for what it counts.”

            “And what was that?” Harry asked, a small air of desperation to it.

            Merlin, they were still doing this? Tiptoeing around the subject? What did he want? I left because I was in love with you?

            “Have you ever noticed that you never see the sun in London?”

            Harry looked annoyed, which mercifully meant he’d been momentarily distracted from his actual intention. “You’re saying that with your complexion, you left so that you could get more sun?”

            “A terrible idea,” he mused, “turns out I can’t tan at all. And believe me, red is not a flattering skin tone on me.”

            “Sarcasm is a terrible form of defence,” Harry said, seeing right through him, “why can’t you answer the question?”

            Change the subject, a voice demanded, almost like an alarm bell. “Did you come in to purchase something? We close in five minutes.”

            Harry let out a frustrated breath. “Yes. I need something for a fussy baby.”

            “Did you try the chamomile?”

            “Yes.”

            “Lavender might help. Or maybe Mandarin.”

            “Fine. Give me both,” Harry grunted.

            Harry left without another word, brown bag of herbs clutched tightly with the crushed paper. He locked the door behind him and hardly made it to the back before fear consumed him.

            He’d truly and completely messed up. Sure, he could have told the truth, but what good would have come of it? What difference would it have made? Miserably lusting after someone was so much more manageable when he didn’t have to see them constantly. Seeing Harry was just another reminder of what he wanted and couldn’t have.

            No, it was better not to say anything at all. Maybe it was better this way after all. Maybe if Harry never sought him out again, he could try to forget what the truth even was. But as much as he loathed to admit it, he did hope Harry looked for him again. That way, maybe he could believe that Harry did still love him. It hardly compensated for the irreconcilability of their lives, but it was still something.

 

            _5 PM, outside Flourish and Blotts._

The handwriting was unmistakable, and on a Sunday he had no plausible excuse not to show up. He had no family he could claim to visit and no work he couldn’t avoid. Which Harry would have known, of course, and which was probably why he had proposed it.

            He didn’t dress for shock value this time, just a plain pair of slacks and a button up. He tied his hair back in a lose bun, not caring if he looked sloppy. Worrying about what Harry would think of him was exhausting. And it definitely wasn’t like he needed to leave any lasting impressions.

            Diagon Alley was quiet on a Sunday night. Most of the shops were closed and only a few clusters of people made their way into the pubs. Sundays were traditionally reserved for family gatherings, tables full of steaming food and familiar company. Having none, he normally spent the time catching up on the latest potions research. Not that he was complaining about having something to do, but he would have preferred another meal filled with the uncomprehensive babble of Pansy’s hyperactive children than an evening spent evading Harry’s prying questions.

            Harry was already waiting, and looked like he had been for a while, even though he’d shown up exactly on time this time. When Harry saw him, he smiled slightly and that alone was enough to send his heart hammering. Then quickly closed the distance between them, and much to his shock, grabbed his hand.

            “Where are we going?” he whispered, all of his attention focused on the warm, calloused hand gripping his tightly.

            “You’ll see,” Harry said cryptically. Then, with absolutely no warning, side-alonged them. At best, it wasn’t the most pleasant mode of transport. Unprepared, it was absolutely nauseating.

            He staggered a bit when his feet hit the ground and spent a long moment trying to get his bearings. “Thanks for the heads up,” he grunted.

            “You wouldn’t have agreed.”

            “What a comfort,” he remarked sarcastically, “and where is it exactly that you have abducted me to?”

            “My home,” Harry answered simply.

            A chill went down his spine, and not because of the cold night air. They were in Godric’s Hollow, he realized, recognizing the Tudor-style cottages lining the narrow streets. Of all places Harry could have settled down, he had chosen the town where his parents had lived, where they had been killed. Yet somehow, that made perfect sense. Harry always had been ridiculously sentimental.

            But what bothered him the most was that here he was, in front of Harry’s home. The home Harry had built with his wife and filled with his children. The home that he had no right to be in. He had no place in it.

            “Well?” Harry asked, eyes sparkling. “You better come in before the food gets cold.”

            Every fibre in his being told him to leave, to run far away. But somehow, despite all his careful avoidance, it felt inevitable. Something deep inside him told him to follow. So, he did.

            The interior was decorated exactly like how he would have pictured Harry’s house. No sense of consistency or elegance, just warm colours and comfortable furnishing. It wasn’t a house, not cold and haunted like the manor was, or pristine and empty like his flat. It was a home, safe, warm, and comforting.

            The first face to appear was the little girl he recognized from the picture. Lucy. She barrelled towards her father faster than he would have thought possible with her small legs. He caught her and hoisted her into the air, which made her laugh uncontrollably. For a moment, he felt very much like an outsider intruding on a private moment.

            “Lucy, this is Draco. Can you say hello?”  
            The little girl cocked her head slightly and looked at him with such intensity it was all he could do not to fidget under her gaze. Then, it faded, and she smiled brightly at him. She squirmed out of her father’s arms and walked over to him.

            “You have very bright hair,” was all she said, and he couldn’t help but laugh a little. “And it’s very long,” she added as if it were a very important point to make.

            He let it slip from the elastic just to prove her point. He hadn’t cut it since he left, and loose, it nearly made its way down half his back.

            “Yours is very curly,” he noted. Like your father’s, he didn’t add.

            She blew a wayward curl out of her face in agreement. “Too curly.”

            “No,” he shook his head, “it’s beautiful.” She smiled at that, and without meaning too, he glanced at Harry’s. The same uncontainable mess, and just as wonderful.

            “Come on,” she said stubbornly, reaching up to grab his hand, “Teddy wants to meet you.”

            He followed, half dragged by her remarkably strong pull. The living room was large, open to the kitchen and a long dining table as well. It was cosy, and full of people.

            He could recognize most of them. Hermione Granger was on the floor surrounded by a small pack of children doing their best to turn her into some sort of fairy princess. A tall mop red hair he assumed was Ron Weasley stood over the stove cooking a handful of pots at once. Luna Lovegood was…well, doing whatever Luna would do. Wearing a bizarre pair of glasses and peering curiously at various object, some sort of field guide in her hand. Neville Longbottom was trying to salvage a handful of potted plants, which all looked rather dead. He’d heard Neville had taken the position of Herbology Professor after Sprout retired.

            Then there were the numerous children, most of whom he didn’t recognize.

            “Teddy!” Lucy shouted, and a blue hair boy turned around, as did just about everyone in the room. All eyes were on him. She didn’t seem to notice and whispered seriously, “he’s going to get his Hogwarts letter any day now.” Then ran off.

            “She has remarkable syntax for a three year old,” he said to Harry once she found a place helping Hermione put on a tiara.

            “She doesn’t get it from me,” Harry laughed.

            “Her mother?”

            Harry didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to. The blue haired boy, Teddy, had made his way over to them.

            “You’re Draco Malfoy,” he said bluntly. For a moment, he stood in terror, expecting the worst. You killed my parents, maybe, or you’re a Death Eater. Instead, he smiled and said, “you’re my family.”

            It was touching and heart-breaking at the same time. Neither of them had any family left, well, blood anyway. They truly were all that was left of the Black family, but the knowledge that he was partially to blame, and that his family certainly was, made the statement bittersweet.

            “You’re my cousin.”

            “You’re too old to be my cousin,” Teddy laughed.

            “Alright, what am I then?” he asked.

            Teddy concentrated for a moment. “You can be my uncle.”

            “I would be honoured,” he decided without a second thought. “I like your hair,” he commented, chancing the subject.

            Teddy looked at him again, then in a sudden burst his startling blue hair was replaced by the same white blonde he had.

            “You’re a metamorphic,” he breathed in awe. Then stupidly remembered that Tonks had been as well.

            “I think Ron’s just about finished. We should start sitting down,” Harry announced.

            The table was crowded, the adults outnumbered by their various offspring. Judging by hair colour alone, he could almost tell where they all came from. It seemed that each of the Weasley-Granger children had inherited their father’s fiery red hair. He could recognize Harry’s from the photo. Jamie had appeared and strapped into a high chair next to his father, and was currently throwing each cheerio off his tray and onto the floor.

            “How long have you been back?” Hermione half yelled over the sound of the children.

            “A few months,” he answered.

            “Are you still working in potions?” she asked, making polite conversation.

            “I work in Goldfinch’s now.”

            “I would love to compare notes,” she started, and Ron glared at her. There was a story there, he thought.

            “Did you see any Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the tropics?” Luna sked suddenly, with a dreamy look.

            “Um, I can’t say that I did,” he answered uncertainly. He had no idea what a Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, but he was fairly certain he would have noticed if he encountered any. He didn’t even ask how she knew he’d been in the tropics.

            “I’ve been thinking of travelling,” Neville contributed, “there is a rare class of Dragon’s-blood trees I’ve been wanted to cultivate. Strangler Fig, too, if it wasn’t so dangerous.”

            He didn’t ask what a Strangler Fig was or why it was so dangerous. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to know.

            “I was thinking of asking Draco to join our league,” Harry said to Ron, “since Ginny’s out.”

            Ron shrugged, which left him with the unfortunate task of either accepting or refusing the offer. Merlin, he hadn’t played Quidditch since Hogwarts. He couldn’t say that he didn’t miss it, the thrill, the exercise, the excitement. But it was bizarre enough to be seated at the same table as the rest of them, a regular meeting? He wasn’t sure he was ready to be that familiar with them.

            “What do you think?” Harry turned to him, asking the dreaded question.

            “I’ll have to think about it,” he answered as politely as he could.

            The meal was…well, it wasn’t that bad, actually. No one dredged up the past. It didn’t seem like any of them had the slightest inclination to talk about anything relating to the war. No one called him a Death Eater, they didn’t even act like he was one. No one asked where he’d been or why he’d left, or worst of all, why he’d come back. They were more than happy to discuss the simple happenings of their everyday life, their children, or their work. Although, the last was mainly composed of Hermione bouncing new initiatives and ideas off of them.

            He had stayed quiet for the most part, only speaking when someone directly addressed him. But the company was more comforting than he would have admitted. They all seemed so happy just to be with each other, eating a simple meal, and laughing about nothing at all. Sure, he had Pansy, but somehow what they had…it was different. Maybe once upon a time, if things had been different, he would have liked to be a part of it.

            Irreconcilable lives, he thought sadly. It wasn’t like he could have one meal with them and expect their pasts to vanish. Still, it was a nice break from his isolation.

            When the meal was done, he immediately offered to help with the dishes. He was raised with some manners, after all. However, he was met with loud and adamant refusal. Within minutes, the room was empty. Save him and Harry. Which seemed…odd, to say the least.

            “Glad you came?” Harry asked quietly. “I know Ron’s cooking can be a bit—”

            “It was nice,” he interrupted. “Thanks for…dragging me here, I guess.”

            “Teddy really wanted to meet you,” Harry said quickly.

            “Oh, it’s because of Teddy?” he laughed, hoping it wasn’t.

            “Well, the truth is—” Harry stopped, but didn’t make any move to continue.

            The truth is what, he wondered. “Why wasn’t Amelia here?” he asked, knowing full well that that wasn’t her name.

            Harry looked at him blankly. “Andrea?” he corrected, then took a deep breath. “She doesn’t live here.”

            “Why?” was the only word that came out of his mouth, even though there were a hundred more.

            “Because,” Harry huffed, “because—you’re making this very difficult for me, did you know that?”

            “Andrea isn’t living here because I’m making things difficult for you?” he repeated, because if there were ever a moment for Harry to be articulate, it was now.

            “No, Andrea hasn’t lived her in months,” Harry answered as if that clarified anything at all. Well, it clarified one thing. Harry wasn’t married, not really, and suddenly all the barriers he’d built between them collapsed. “You’re making this difficult for me because…you were supposed to go away forever.”

            “Sorry?” he offered.

            “No, that’s not what I—” Harry apologized quickly. “What I mean is…Merlin. You said you were leaving, for good, right? And I had to stay here and try to move on with my life, and I couldn’t.”

            And you think I could, he was about to say, but Harry barely breathed before continuing.

            “And Andrea was wonderful, and I really believed I could love her, even if I didn’t at first. She got pregnant, and we both wanted families, so it seemed like the perfect solution. I think we almost tricked ourselves into thinking it was, for a while. But—”

            Harry stopped, and he was sure that his heart was beating so loudly they could hear it in the next room. “But what?” he whispered.

            “But she wasn’t you,” Harry croaked.

            He should have felt happy. He should have felt so relieved that he had been wrong, that Harry was still in love with him, that there was no marriage in the way. It should have been a dream come true.

            But it wasn’t, or at least, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like Harry’s words were suffocating him. It was like every layer had been peeled away and he was left feeling raw and exposed. Vulnerable. It felt like if he didn’t leave, the walls would slowly close in and crush him.

            “I have to go,” was all he managed before bolting out the front door. Harry might have followed him, or maybe he hadn’t. He couldn’t tell. His vision had faded to a blinding white and it was all he could do to apparate back to the safety of his cold, empty apartment.

 

            Pansy showed up five days later, having worked herself into a fit when she found out he hadn’t been to work all week. She’d probably thought the worst, he realized. Drugs again, or maybe he’d gone and died in some back alleyway. That should have been the worst, but somehow, to him, the situation was much more serious.

            “No Drugs then? No alcohol? No, I don’t know, potions?” she asked once she’d confirmed he was still alive.

            “No,” he grunted miserably.

            “Then why are you moping around?” she scolded, once again turning into his mother.

            “He still loves me,” he groaned.

            “He—Harry Potter still loves you?” she said, perking up immediately. “Well, I could have told you that. Why is that a bad thing?”

            “Because,” he started, “because…I don’t know.” It was the truth. He couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t over the moon that Harry still loved him. That Harry had _admitted_ that he still loved him.

            “Is it because of his wife?”

            “No, they aren’t even together anymore.”

            “Is it because of his children?”

            “No, they’re lovely.”

            “Then what is it?” Pansy snapped.

            That was the million-dollar question, he thought bitterly. There was no logical, rational answer.

            “So he told you, and you just ran out?” she asked after he’d told her what had happened, rather judgementally, he thought. He felt guilty enough without her added disappointment.

            “Why did I do that?” he moaned, pressing his face into his pillow so it muffled the pitifulness of what he was saying.

            She paused. “Do you wish you never left?”

            “Yes,” he chocked, knowing it sounded more like a sob. Normally, he founded physical contact repulsive, but the comforting hand she ran down his back was more reassuring than he’d admit.

            “Do you know what I think?” she whispered.

            “No,” he croaked.

            “I think you need to grow up.” And just like that her hand was gone and she was standing up to leave.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” he shouted after her.

            “It means, Draco Malfoy, that you made a decision and now you have to deal with the consequences. Which, I might add, aren’t nearly as bad as they should be. He’s still in love with you, isn’t he? He isn’t married anymore, either. So, either grow up and move on and, I don’t know, go tell him you love him and want to start over, or you can run away. Again.”

            Run away again. The words were like a white, hot iron piercing right through him. Was that what he’d done before? He’d left for both of them, because being around Harry, the way he was, would never have worked out.

            And now? Well, paradise was still there, and miserable as it was, wouldn’t it be safer? For both of them, he repeated, but maybe he wasn’t even sure of that anymore.    
            But tell Harry Potter that he was still in love with him and that he wanted more, well, that made the monotony of his life abroad sound almost tempting.

            “What do I say?” he asked desperately.

            “You’re a big boy. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she answered, turning quickly and vanishing.

            Maybe all Slytherins were cowards after all, he thought, crawling back into his bed, and firmly deciding he would stay there for the rest of eternity.

 

            In the end, it took him another week to gather the courage to see Harry again. He didn’t owl ahead of time, either too scared Harry would say no or that he’d chicken out. Sunday afternoon, he’d decided, like last time.

            He turned to leave five times before he even made it to the front door, then another once he rang the doorbell. Unfortunately, Harry opened it before he had the chance.

            “I was wondering if you were going to make it in,” Harry laughed, smiling widely.

            He should have been more mortified that Harry had watched than he did, but he was so nervous he couldn’t even begin to feel embarrassed.

            “Coming?” Harry asked, leaving the door open.

            He stood frozen to the spot. An open door, and if he went through it, he knew Harry was on the other side, waiting for him. Behind him was nothing, another empty void he could disappear into.

            “Yes,” he decided.

 

            Maybe leaving had been necessary. Maybe it was the only way he could get sober, _stay_ sober, and learn to live again. Maybe getting away from the streets that reminded him of every terrible act he’d committed had been crucial.

            Then again, maybe if he’d stayed, they could have been together. Maybe they wouldn’t have missed out on so much time. Maybe Harry wouldn’t have married someone else, but then, he might not have realized what that missing piece was, or how much he needed him.

            Maybe he wouldn’t have realized how much he needed Harry, or how desperately he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. Maybe he wouldn’t have understood how miserable it was to spend his days without the man he loved, the only man he would ever love. That no matter how far away he ran, he could never run away from that kind of link.

            Call it true love or soul mates, although he couldn’t say he believed in either. All he could say is that it didn’t matter whether his decisions were right or wrong. All that mattered was what decisions he made moving forward, and even though those weren’t completely clear, he knew one thing.

            He would never run away again.

            He couldn’t. Maybe it had started the first time he saw those green eyes, anxious and bewildered in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, or when he chose to betray his family and everything, he’d been taught to believe in to save the bruised saviour on his foyer floor. Maybe it had been the ever-present state of terror he’d felt before each tournament event Harry had faced, or the way his heart stopped every time Harry caught the winning Snitch. It could have been that first awkward confession, or when he woke up to Harry’s relieved eyes after he overdosed, or the absolute heartbreak of leaving him.

            Whatever it was, whenever it started, he was consumed by it and knew he always would be. For whatever had happened, for whatever would, for all that it was worth.


End file.
